Two men sat on a bus stop bench in
the afternoon sun. On the street, cars went by, they aren’t noticed by the men,
and the men aren’t noticed by the cars’ drivers.
The first man shifted in position
on the bench. As he does so, the orange face of a lawyer with shiny black hair
can be seen printed on its back. When the man on the right moves in search of
comfort, sections of a telephone number followed by Injured? are hinted at but never quite revealed.
The man on right is youngish, his
hair nearly as greasy looking as the lawyer that is on the bus bench behind
him. An impossibly thin moustache frowns under his nose. Somehow it looks
haughty. His shirt promotes a band that you aren’t cool enough to have heard
about. The lines of suspenders worn too loose to serve a purpose, frame his
chest. His jeans are nearly as skinny as he is. His shined boots, that look
like they’ve never been worn through any adversity, cap off this character. His
name is Abe.
The man on the left, who goes by
Art, is a solid 20 years older. His hair officially needed cut last week and
has silvered prematurely. He wore a plain white button up that looks like a
pair of old kitchen curtains that have seen too much sun. In much the same way,
his black jeans have faded to grey from years of washing. Remarkably, the men
don’t know it, but they have on the same brand of boot. His aren’t shined; they
aren’t even tied. Overall he doesn’t appear gruff, but he’s not smiling either.
Art isn’t speaking to Abe, but his gaze wonders in his direction, just enough
to not be questioned about his intentions.
More cars passed, as did time. The
men waited, the only thing between them, that semi-uncomfortable silence that
sometimes squeezes between two strangers in public.
Abe’s eyes were locked onto the
screen of his phone. By the intense gaze he is holding, one might think worlds
were dying at his fingertips. Art’s gaze swings to Abe. Art’s mouth opens, but
claps shut before speaking.
Abe intuited Art’s gaze and turns
slightly to his left. As he does this, Art catches a tattoo on his forearm.
Art felt it rising in his throat
but he can’t stop it. “Just what the hell is that?”
Art seemed shocked the phrase
actually escaped, but he does not blush. Abe’s face, however glowed as if he’s
been slapped. Unable to speak, Abe’s mouth only gaped.
Another
stream of cars passed on the street before them.
“Jesus
Christ man ever heard of tact?”
Quickly,
Art retorted, “Yes, but I gave that up years ago.”
Abe didn’t
seem amused. On the contrary, Art seemed pleased, but not pleased enough to laugh
aloud.
Several
moments of silence passed yet again. These moments were only tense for Abe.
“Hey
I’m sorry man. You don’t have answer that. Truth is I just was bored and wanted
to chit-chat. Didn’t know how to say so.”
Abe
studied Art, trying to see if his eyes were sincere. After a brief deliberation
he opened the door to more talk. Abe’s body relaxed a bit, as he said, “Nah
it’s cool man. I kinda figured that. I was trying to avoid you.”
“You’re
talented. Seems you’ve had some practice at that.” Art smiled.
A woman walking a black lab strolled
behind them on the sidewalk. She wore a mini skirt and a low cut top; cleavage had
spilled out of the front of her shirt. They both looked (casually) and when she
was out of view neither strained to keep looking, but they did continue to look
from their peripheral vision.
Art and Abe shared a laugh.
“Don’t break your neck or anything.”
Art said.
Abe laughed, “You neither.”
Silence took hold for a few
minutes. Abe began to squirm, and reluctantly posed a question. “Ok, let’s say
we chat. We’ll keep it superficial, just until the bus gets here.”
Art nodded.
“What’s your story?” he asked, but
before Abe could answer, he began speaking again. “The short version ya know.”
He took out his cell phone and glanced at the time.
“Right, superficial, short. Got
it.” Art couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “Thought you might say that.”
Abe, “Go ahead then.” He gestured
his left hand in a circle with his index finger.
“Well I’m a lot like you.”
Abe raised an eyebrow. “Is that a
fact?”
“It’s a fact alright. But I’m a
great deal more patient, even-toned and caring.”
Laughing, Abe asked, “And just how is
it you’ve come to know this?”
“Cause I am you Abe. Or should I
say: Abraham Richard Talcomb, or Art for short. Just for the sake of keeping
the conversation straight.” Art looked in the eyes of Abe; saw the confusion,
the disbelief.
“Great, you learned my name
somehow…” An unconvincing chortle from Abe, “Alright see, this is why I don’t
talk to people. They’re fuckin’ nuts, and I already got--”
“Enough crazy in my life?” Art
offered. “That’s what you were going to say wasn’t it? You say it often.”
“Fairly easy to predict. Think I
heard it in a movie once.” Abe’s eyes became slits. “What’s your angle pal?”
“No angle, I’m just here as a
warning. Trying to save us both from some heartache, and yourself. And a lot of wasted time- more so that than anything.”
Abe perked up, “Alright psycho,
I’ll play along but let me recap; you are from a future where time travel is
possible. But rather than, I dunno killin’ Hitler or something…you decided to
visit me-your younger self- in order
to save us time?”
“Not time travel kiddo.
Hallucination. Remember what you did before this?”
Abe nodded, but his eyes were
distant, vague vacuums. “Acid…” he seemed to be recalling, but didn’t recount
the events to his companion on the bus bench.
“Bingo.” Art smiled as wide as he
could. “And no need to share the events. I’m just a projection from that noggin
of yours. I don’t need the details. In fact, me personally, I don’t know if you
are actually even waiting for a bus. As far as I know we are solely in the
landscape of your mind. And if that is true, the cleavage on the dog walker was
over-the-top juvenile.”
“You looked too.” Abe remarked.
“You made me.”
“Well shit.” Abe was cowed, at
least for now. “Ok then. Still, time is of the essence, even if you’re renting
space in my brain. Can you go ahead and deliver my ominous Ghost of Christmas Past forewarning?”
Sighing, Art placed an ethereal
hand on Abe’s shoulder, “See that’s just it. You’re too impatient. What’s the
rush? For all you know you passed out and pissed yourself before you started
having this vision.”
“Why would I piss myself from doing
acid?”
“Shut up. I have 3 things I’m going
to tell you. First off; you need to slow down. Everything is not on a timer.
When’s the last time you actually enjoyed yourself?”
“I went on vacation last week.” Abe
immediately regretted the example.
“San Diego, right? One of the most
relaxing and laid back cities in the country. You worried about going back to
work the whole time. Deadlines haunting you even when you’re away…”
Abe appeared deflated, but managed
a nod. Thinking about it made him feel strange and ashamed. But it made him
listen as well. As he did a large truck barreled by on the street before them.
Green letters on the truck read; Honest
Abe’s Moving & Storage. Beneath the words was a cartoonish figure of
Abe himself, complete with caricatured muscles and coveralls.
“Second; treat people well. I would
say treat them how you want to be treated, but it’s obvious you don’t really
care about that since you wall yourself off from most everyone.”
“In my defense, people are
complicated.”
“You see? You said that as if you,
yourself aren’t human!”
Abe conceded, “I see your point.”
“Great, glad I’m getting through to
you. I can tell from the look on your face, you understand what I’ve said, but
that’s not the hard part. The tough piece is figuring out how to change, and
then putting that change into practice. Every.
Damn. Day.” Art grabbed both of Abe’s hands and knelt in front of him.
Abe felt like Art was staring
directly into his soul. “I can do it.” He began to sob lightly, still trying to
save face, even in a hallucination, with an imagined version of himself no
less.
“Lastly, and most important-
because I can already see the self-doubt in your eyes- you need to understand: People can change for the better!”
“What if I don’t want to change?”
whined Abe.
Disappointed, Art shook his head, “You’re
having a conversation with a phantom version of yourself; tell me your
subconscious isn’t nudging you towards a little self improvement?”
Abe only nodded briefly. “Alright,
ok. You got me. I’m guilty of being a self-centered asshole.” Abe thought a bit
more, “Which also stands to reason why I’d choose to talk this out with myself. Classic me.” Abe turned back to
Art, “Anything else?”
“Ya, and this one’s a freebie: lay
off the acid.” Art smiled.
Abe watched as Art’s form
dissipated in a ghostly manner.
Left alone in his surroundings, Abe
stood. Glancing back at the bus bench he now noticed the lawyer’s face on the
bench was his own as well, followed by his phone number. “Man I am really self absorbed...”
